new york city scares the fucking shit out of me. and i am absolutely, wretchedly, in love with it. it sounds, aptly, much like the rest of the things i’ve fallen in love with over the course of my lifetime.

there is something singular about the way new yorkers write about the city.

its unforgiving nature. the heat rising from the cement. the cold seeping into the veins of buildings and people. shitty window unit A/C (what? there is no central A/C? laments the stupid houstonian). how no gentlemen will wait for you to get on the elevator before they push their way in. (wait, how no gentlemen exist?) the pollution. the endless subway stories, the endless assholes. the traffic.

yesterday i spoke with someone who left new york city 20 years ago. her entire face lit up as i talked about the City, and like teenagers talking about their first caramel frappuccinos, we chatted excitedly about it for 15 minutes (even though we were supposed to be talking about boring business things).

time passes differently there. you can touch the time, it’s thick ¬†and substantial with urgency and impatience. maybe that’s why i like it there.

even the way the sunlight falls on the side of the fire escapes casts different shadows.

and, aren’t we breathless the very moment we land? the decision is, the good kind of breathless, or the exhausted kind…

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